Call you "good fortune"?
The door opes wide,
And raindrops on my bed are scattered,
The light's blown out—woes multiplied!
He that hath not an hundred rhymes,
I'll wager, in these dolorous times
We'd see him shattered!
MY BLISS.
Once more, St Mark, thy pigeons meet my gaze,
The Square lies still, in slumbering morning mood: